Transcriber's Notes:
Variations in spelling, punctuation and hyphenation have been retained except in obvious cases of typographical error:
"Ehere is not one..." has been changed to "There is not one..."

SOME VERSES

BY
HELEN HAY

DUCKWORTH AND CO.
3 HENRIETTA ST. COVENT GARDEN
1898

To my Father

[CONTENTS]

[SONNETS]

[THE DAYS]

A long grim corridor—a sullen bar

Of light athwart the darkness—where no fleet

Pale sunshine spreads for dark his winding sheet

A light, not born of noon nor placid star

Glows lurid thro' the gloom—while from afar,

Beats marching of innumerable feet.

Is this the place where tragic armies meet?

The throb of terror that presages war?—

I strain to see, then softly on my sight

There falls the vision, manifold they come—

White listless Day chained to her brother Night—

Their hands are shackled and their lips are dumb,

And as they meet the air where each one dies,

They turn and smile at me—with weary eyes.

[THE EVERLASTING SNOWS]

And shall it be that these undaunted snows

That poise so lightly on the mountains' crest—

A lily laid to cheer its lonely breast—

Shall their chill smile still face the wind, that blows

Across the field whereon no blossom grows,

And light the land where no gay life may rest

Save glowing hasty fingers of the West,

When our two hearts lie cold beneath the rose?

These silver flakes of ancient hoary frost,

Surviving all our joys' supremest powers,

And though the petals of your lips be lost

And gone the summer of your golden head,

This pale eternal growth of winter's flowers

Shall still live on—though our sweet love be dead.

[THRONE AND ALTAR]

He had a vision of a golden throne

Fronting an altar; both alike were bare,

But o'er the purple of the regal chair

Blazed the device, "I wait for him alone

Who with the world has held his soul his own."

He sadly turned, this height he could not dare.

But—Stay—the text upon the altar there—

"I wait for him who has not made a moan

Howe'er his kind have used his heaven-sent dower.

Fear not, and burn thine incense, lowly heart."

And sudden brightness turns the averted face,

To holy sense of majesty and power—

And a voice:—"Master—this indeed thou art."

Wondrous music trembles thro' the space.

[EAST AND WEST]

You have not ceased for me. Though stern-browed Fate

Laid our two paths apart; when in the West

She gave you over to the seas, and great

Wide winds of enterprise, and set your breast

Against the suns and shadows of the earth;

Then with a gilded largess, led my ways

Toward the time-worn East, who paints her dearth

With purple vain imaginings; the praise

Of all her languid incense and the pride

Of ancient mysteries and hopeless creeds

Hold for my heart no spell when warm and wide

I see across the blue of Isis' veil

The thunderous breakers of your ocean pale

And glints of prairie sun through river reeds.

[THE BATTLE]

The pallid waves caress the paler sand,

Falter and tremble, then reluctant wane,

Fearing advance, yet venturing again.

Grey deep sea waves that never knew the land,

Tired with the tumult, stretch a crooked hand

To win a precious sweet surcease from pain,

But, glancing back upon the mighty main,

Perforce return to swell the strong command.

So fretful Life sees Death's cold sands and faints

To fling thereon the wearing of her wave,

Yet, turning ere she finds the gloomy shore,

Seeing ahead the idle senseless grave,

Behind—the Kings, the Patriots and the Saints,

She sighing turns to face the fight once more.

[WATER AND WINE]

I asked for water and they brought me wine;

Wine in a jewelled chalice, where the gold

Gleamed thro' the purple beads, as if unrolled—

One saw the sun-rays of a life-time shine.

So drinking, I forgot my dream divine

Of crystal purity, for in my hold

Were wealth and Fame and Passions manifold

Which with the draught I fancied might be mine.

"Ah, Youth," I said, "Ah, Faith and Love!" I said;

"These are but broken lances in the strife!

What shall remain when all these things are sped?"

Then crashed the dream. I clutched the hand of Fate

Amid the ruins of my shattered life,

And found the Gods had cheated, all too late.

[PITY ME NOT!]

Cruel and fair! within thy hollowed hand

My heart is lying as a little rose,

So faint and faded, scarce could one suppose

It might look in thine eyes and understand

The song they sing unto a weary land,

Making it radiant, yet because I dare,

To love thee, being weak, lose not thine air

Of passive distance, fateful and most grand.

Pity me not, nor turn away awhile

Till absence's cloud has caught my passion up.

Ah, be not kind! for love's sake, be not kind!

Grant me the tragic deepness of the cup,

And when thine eyes have flashed and made me blind,

Kill me beneath the shadow of thy smile.

[A DREAM IN FEVER]

A vast screen of unequal downward lines,

An orange purple halo 'round the rain,

Twists from a space whose very size is pain.

Here in this vortex day with night combines

Ruby and Emerald glint their blazing spines;

Closing and smothering, wheels a brazen main,

A shuddering sea of silence; in its train

A Thought—a cry, whose snake—fear trembling twines

Around—above—alive yet uttered not;

But my heart hears—and shrieking dies of dread,

Then soaring breaks its bands and o'er the rim

White winged it rends the dark with jagged blot,

Glimpsing the iris gateway barred ahead,

And, gazing thro', the eyes of cherubim.

[A WOMAN'S PRIDE]

I will not look for him—I will not hear

My heart's loud beating, as I strain to see

Across the rain forlorn and hopelessly,

Nor starting, think 'tis he that draws so near.

I will forget how tenderly and dear

He might in coming hold his arms to me,

For I will prove what woman's pride can be

When faint love lingers in the darkness drear.

I will not—Ah, but should he come to-night

I think my life might break thro' very bliss,

This little will should so be torn apart

That all my soul might fail in golden light

And let me die—So do I long for this.

Ah, love, thine eyes!—Nay, love—Thy heart, thy heart!

[AGE]

I have a dream, that somewhere in the days,

Since when a myriad suns have burned and died,

There was a time my soul was not for pride

Of spendthrift youth, the pensioner who pays

Dole for the pain of searching thro' the haze

Where joy lies hidden. As the puff balls ride,

The wandering wind across the Summer's side

So winged my spirit in a golden blaze

Of pure and careless Present—Future naught

But a sad dotard's wail—and I was young,

Who now am old. Now years like flashes seem,

Lambent or grey on the great wall of Thought—

This is a song a poet may have sung—

No proof remains, I have but dreamed a dream.

[IN THE MIST]

Ah love, my love, upon this alien shore

I lean and watch the pale uneasy ships

Slip thro' the waving mist in strange eclipse,

Like spirits of some time and land of yore.

I did not think my heart could love thee more,

And yet, when lightlier than a swallow dips,

The wind lays ghostly kisses on my lips

I seem to know of love the eternal core.

Here is no throbbing of impassioned breath

To beat upon my cheek, no pulsing heart

Which might be silenced by the touch of Death,

No smile which other smile has softly kissed

Or doting gaze which Time must draw apart,

But spirit's spirit in the trailing mist.

[ON THE MOUNTAIN'S SLOPE]

High on the mountain's slope I pause and turn—

Over my head, by the rough crag-points high,

Seems rent and torn the tender hovering sky,

Till almost—thro'—I see a Heaven-spark burn;

Then downward to the sleeping world I yearn

Whose eyes so heavy droop they may not try

To catch the higher gleam—and live thereby—

Youth passes graveward—and they never learn.

Then faint with brooding o'er a careless earth

I turn to Nature and her broad warm breast,

Strive for a friendship with her sun-burnt mirth,

Teach my sad soul to catch her cadence deep,

Dream that in her absorbed my heart must rest;

But Nature smiles, and turns once more in sleep.

[TO THE BELOVED]

Beloved, when the tides of life run low

As sobbing echoes of a dead refrain,

And I may sit and watch the silent rain

And muse upon the fulness of my woe,

Then is my burden lighter, for I know

The roses of my heart shall bloom again

The fairer for this plenitude of pain,

And Summer shall forget the chilly snow.

But when life calls me to its revels gay

And I must face the world's wide-gazing eyes

Nor find sweet rest by night or peace by day,

E'en seems your love, where I would turn for aid,

As distant as the blue in sunny skies;

Then am I very lonely and afraid.

[MY BROOK]

Earth holds no sweeter secret anywhere

Than this my brook, that lisps along the green

Of mossy channels, where slim birch trees lean

Like tall pale ladies whose delicious hair

Lures and invites the kiss of wanton air.

The smooth soft grasses, delicate between

The rougher stalks, by waifs alone are seen,

Shy things that live in sweet seclusion there.

And is it still the same, and do these eyes

Of every silver ripple meet the trees

That bend above like guarding emerald skies?

I turn—who read the city's beggared book

And hear across the moan of many seas

The whisper and the laughter of my brook.

[BENEATH THE MOON]

Give me thy hand, Beloved! Here where still

The night wind hovers 'neath the pallid moon

Give me this fleeting moment; all too soon

The listless day will break upon the hill;

This last sweet night is mine. The tremulous thrill

Upon thy lips is all the precious boon

I begged of Heaven, the garish sun of noon

Is theirs—the rest—mine is this moment's will.

Our love could never be the love of day.

I have not claimed the welcome of thy lips;

No touch save fluttering hand, and for the pay

I gave my minstrelsy of sea and sky.

Once more thine eyes! Now sun-stained finger tips,

Send through the hush of dawn a glad good-bye.

[THE RUBY]

Ah—she was fair, this daughter of a queen!

Jewels upon her breast's soft fall of snow,

Jewels—in golden hair—and fierce aglow,

The gem of pride upon her brow serene!

Sleeping soft moonstone, emerald's baleful green,

A single sapphire, singing soft and low

Of wars for beauty's sake in years ago,

And flaming opal—wed with tourmaline.

Yet was there one great stone she might not wear,

And so her eyes were weary, and her mouth

Curved in the listless line of vain desire.

No diamond pure was hers the right to bear,

But—crimson poison petal of the South—

The ruby shone in deep unholy fire.

[SPRING AND AUTUMN]

The painted World has laid her jewels down,

Let fall the pinchbeck hair about her face

And croons a love song. In a far-off place

Where she was strutting in her silken gown

She met the Youth. His face was young and brown.

"Good day to you," she cried, the frosty lace

About her shoulders trembled. Ah—disgrace!

He turned, and left her weeping in the town.

She smiles not any more, her heart disdains

The wind's rough courting, loud and indiscreet.

Her tears dissolve the earth in ceaseless rains

And though her searching steps be light and fleet

Through frowning city or soft country lanes,

Now never more may Spring and Autumn meet.

[THE LOST MOMENT]

This moment I so careless threw away,

Tossed to the ages, with a spendthrift hand,

Little I recked the labour that had planned

This flash eternal of a Summer day;

Æons of sequent toil had passed to pay

Wealth to the freighted instant. Slow and grand

Wavers a solemn dirge across the land,

One soul, in my lost moment, found a way

To throw the mock to Time, and call him slave.

And I—a pauper still—gaze wise at last

To all the grey horizon line of nought.

But from the heart I deemed an empty grave

Gleams forth like spark my precious gem of past

Shrined in the setting of a deathless thought.

[THE COMING OF LOVE]

I dreamed that love came, as the oak trees grow,

By the chance dropping of a tiny seed;

And then from moon to moon with steady speed,

Tho' torn by winds and chilled with heedless snow,

The sap of pulsing life would upward flow,

'Till in its might the heavens themselves could read

Portents of power that they must learn to heed.

This was my dream—the waking proved not so—

For love came like a flower, and grew apace;

I saw it blossom tenderly and frail

Till the dear Spring had run its eager race,

Then the rough wind tossed wide the petals red;

The seeds fell far in soil beyond my pale.

I know not, now, if love be lost, or dead.

[EVENING AT WASHINGTON]

The purple stretches of the evening sky

Lean to the fair white city waiting here,

Flecking with gold the marble's lifted tier,

Down the blue marsh where crows to Southward fly.